


drops of fake rain on ceramic window pain

by sedirktive (orphan_account)



Series: the house with concrete windows [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bittersweet, M/M, Shower Sex, im trying to break someone's heart. did it work., shit i wrote at 11pm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sedirktive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know you want it. You know he'll dupe you. You know he'll ask you what's wrong and kiss you until nothing hurts. You know he'll whisper sweet promises in your ear as you fall asleep in his arms. You know he'll leave you again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drops of fake rain on ceramic window pain

You haven't seen him in two months, but that's okay, you guess. Sometimes Dave just does that: leaves without any warning, without any goodbyes. One day he's there, the next day he's gone, almost as if he's the quick puff of wintery breath. You're not sure where he goes, or why, but it's always for a long time and he always comes back.

There's no point in asking him about it. He won't tell you anything. It's a fact you've come to accept.

You're not saying it doesn't hurt. It does. It carves a hole right in your chest when you wake up to cold sheets and an unused coffee pot. You try to carry on life as you normally might, but it's hard to be in the bedroom for too long, where the ghost of him still lingers wearing your favorite crooked grin and with crooked fingers as though he wants you in bed with him for his own crooked purposes.

The couch is your nest when Dave is gone, and it is on the couch that you awake at 2:07 in the morning to the sound of water running through the old plumbing.

Even in your sleep-deprived stupor, you know what it means. You debate yourself for a moment whether or not you should do something. After all, the couch is so warm and the blankets seem to pin you to the cushions with gentle care reminiscent of a parent's hands.

Staggering slightly under the weight of heavy eyelids, you get up and climb the stairs at a slow, lumbering pace. Your feet pad quietly across the wooden panels as you reach the bathroom door. It's not locked. He never locks it.

Only the top hinge of the gives you away; It groans like an old man getting up in the morning.

"Hey, John."

His figure is silhouetted in the opaque shower door. A thin layer of mist gathers on your glasses and you move instinctively to wipe them on your ratty, old ghostbusters shirt. A sudden shyness curls up, unannounced, in the pit of your stomach. He hasn't been home in so long. "Hi," you mumble back, conceding the battle between clear visibility and condensation. Your glasses make a little clicking noise as you put them on the counter top. Next to Dave's sunglasses, they look a little more at home.

"I'm back." He announces this as though he were a doting husband who had just gotten home from a 8 hour shift at work.

The very idea of that burns in a place you had long renounced. Dryly, you say "I can see that." You hope he can hear you crossing your arms.

For a moment, he doesn't respond. He just keeps on shampooing himself. After he rinses the suds out, he opens the door slightly, motioning to you as he often does in your lonesome fantasies. You don't want to do this. You don't want to let yourself fall into this habit again. You don't want him to hurt you again.

But at the same time, you do. You know you want it. You know he'll dupe you. You know he'll ask you what's wrong and kiss you until nothing hurts. You know he'll whisper sweet promises in your ear as you fall asleep in his arms. You know he'll leave you again.

You're naked before you know it, and standing at the door of the shower. You press your hand against the cool glass , as though you want it to pass through to the other side to touch Dave without actually being there so that he doesn't see you crying. Of course that won't happen, and your body screams for his touch.

Retracting your fingers, you see the shadow of Dave's palm right where yours had been. He pushes the door open and lets you in.

The kiss you share beneath the warm water is deep, probing, questioning, hurt, and consoling all at the same time. It tastes of regret and forgiveness, frustration and second chances, sweet talk and bitter fighting. Without saying a word, your mouths say it for you. You squeeze your eyes shut and hold him close and try to pretend that it's your first kiss again. You try to pretend you're at a ratty bus stop bench after a rowdy party with your slightly drunk, slightly high best friend. You're slightly drunk, slightly high too, but the cold sprinkle of rain sobers you up enough to remember your address. The water splatters on the glass and metal structure that only minorly protects you from the elements. And then it happens. There's no prelude, no explanation, no reason. He just leans in and kisses you, then and there. Confesses he loves you, then and there. Tells you he wants to spend the rest of his life with you, then and there. And, then and there, he means it with all his heart.

You're not then and there. You're here and now. You're not sure if he still feels the same way, or if he feels anything at all. And you're just a sham, trying to pretend that fake rain on ceramic window pain means the same thing that the real deal did to you when you were young and stupid.

Dave looks as he did the last time you saw him: tall, lean, and blond, with 37 freckles on the left shoulder, 35 on the right, and 19 blazing a trail across his face. The two of you do a two-step until you're pressed against the cool ceramic-tile that lines your shower. The two of your have long forgone the ceremony of virgin blushes and shaking fingers. Already, you've set to work preparing his erection, methodically stroking and touching in a way that only your fingers could remember. Dave has one hand tracing the curve of your spine and the other working a layer of lubricant along the inside of your ass.

For the first time in two months, you look him in the eyes. What sorts of things lay in the soul beneath the surface of those red windows? He looks away, and you know it's because he hates it when you do that. He hates himself for being so freakish and he hates you for loving what he hates.

Instead, Dave turns to let his thin lips caress the side of your face as his fingers find your prostate, making you shiver and mewl with pleasure. After going untouched for so long, you feel a gratified relief that your long, adolescent sessions of love-making had paid off, that he still knew your body inside out.

"Don't cry, John," he whispers in your ear. "Please don't cry." You wouldn't have been able tell if you were crying or not, with the shower trying to wash away all the dirt and discomfort, but you realize that your eyes are stinging with the threat of tears. His tears only make it worse.

You can't think of a reply. Instead, you let him lift you. For a moment, you are weightless, suspended briefly in the open air before the your back becomes roughly acquainted with the wall again. Obediently, you wrap your legs around him, expecting, but still clenching up for, his inevitable entry.

The stretch as he pushes in makes you scream internally and externally. Your toes curl in protest. Relaxing would be the most obvious option, but the you consider this initial pain to be your punishment for loving Dave to such a point.

And, of course, the pain recedes quickly. Under your lover's tender ministrations, the steam's soothing effect, and sheer lack of willpower, you melt. Your scream becomes ohs and mms and yeses and harders as he thrusts into with intense concentration and deadly accuracy.

Dave only says one thing: John John John John John, punctuated occasionally by the quiet hiss of oh god yes or fuck.

At the last moment, you grab him by the hair and pull him in for a satisfyingly violent kiss as you release onto him and he releases into you.

Gasping for breath, Dave slumps to the floor, taking you down with him. He lies his head on your shoulder, tilted at an angle that allows him to give you a good, wet hickey on your shoulder before he pulls out and turns the water off.

The two of you shiver and dry off. You head for the bedroom once your dressed, climbing under the covers of the bed that had sat untouched for weeks on end. Dave follows shortly after, smelling of toothpaste and dressed in nothing but an old pair of pajama bottoms.

You curl up into him and he puts his arms around you. "I love you," you say quietly.

"I know." A moment passes. "I love you too," he says, as though trying to ease your conscience.

You cry because you want to believe it's true. You cry because he's here with you right now. You cry because he cries and you don't know why.

**Author's Note:**

> so i was reading some yaoi and thought i'd write something  
> yeses is the plural of yes. its a really fucking weird word.  
> i dont actually know why dave is out a lot. i didn’t really think it through. nothing really gets thought through in 11pm fanfiction.


End file.
